Diary Of The Living - Chapter One
by Theramydu
Summary: The dairy of a man living in the UK during the zombie apocalypse. Rated M for strong violence & language. Original characters & locations. Also keep in mind that this is a diary written by the protagonist so grammar and spelling errors will be intentional, unless I have missed them whilst proof reading. Thanks & I hope you enjoy my work and please give your constructive criticism.
1. Chapter 1

**June 14th 2017**

It has been 17 days since I saw the last living human being; never have I felt so lonely, the icy grips of solitude reaching out and grasping my neck, choking the mechanisms which seem to keep me going in this hellish place.. The icy winds battering the sides of what was once someone's garden shed, I am unsure if the structure can survive another night of the weather which is currently in full force. I must find new shelter. I am lucky to have found this notepad, with the mass development of technology since the millennium, it has become much harder to get your hands on the simple tools, such as a pen and paper or at least something which isn't battery operated. I suppose it is just nice to have some medium of expressing myself other than explicit arguments with one's reflection in puddles.

I suppose I am also writing this so whoever manages to find and read this once I am gone can learn from my mistakes and maybe even learn something new along the way. I want people to read about my experience in this chaotic world, even if the majority of its inhabitants are the living dead; one can only dream.

For now I must rest, it is going to be a long day tomorrow; finding suitable shelter to make camp for the night, assuming I make it through the night.

**June 15th 2017**

It would seem I have unfortunately made it through another day, brace yourself, most of my entries will probably start somewhat like that; but then again who would be having fun in a world like this? Maybe there is an infection free zone, with ice creams, materialistic fantasies and brightly painted lampposts. One cannot simply express the excitement of the mind thinking of such things, but it is futile, if there is a infection free environment it certainly isn't near here, there seems to be more infected than usual; I hope I am not attracting too much attention to myself. Whilst moving I had to leave some of my gear behind, good job I stole spares, I wouldn't be eating now if I didn't consider stealing things. Smart move me, here; have a gold star. Well done me.

Moving swiftly on, I have managed to find a tree house of all things to make camp in, I'll certainly rest well tonight safe in the knowledge that the infected can't climb trees and luckily this tree house didn't have any fixed access, unless they grow wings; well that wouldn't be fun. I mustn't think these thoughts the situation is already completely fucked.

Granted, the infected can't climb, but there was certainly a lot of them interested in the house which the tree seems to belong to, maybe there are some survivors holding up inside or just some corpses, I'm not going to take any chances, I'll keep a close eye on the property but under no circumstances will I make any attempt to access the building, at least not until I know the house is completely empty and has a way to enter it without attracting the attention of the dead.

I experienced people being lured in by other people only to find themselves striped of all their belongings or even worse murdered. The infection has certainly brought out the true light in people, I suppose it is a survival instinct to some who have a 'Kill or be killed' attitude to the situation; I dear reader am not one of those people, I like to stick to the shadows, I try to avoid confrontation at any cost, in this world it just isn't worth the risk.

On that note though I think I shall tell you about myself.

I grew up in the small village of Mansfield Woodhouse, humble little place; can't really say it has got that much worse with the spread of the infection. I am 24 years young, I didn't really have much luck with anything before the outbreak; mass of debt and homeless, so really this has been a lucky escape for me I suppose; although I moved around enough to make sure the bailiff never found me to strip me of my clothes. I never really had much family, they have all either moved away or have passed away. I have always been quite a anti social person, the thought of a busy city scares me; the huge towering buildings, the mad rushes of people fueling their materialistic ways and just the general bombardment on how everyone should live their lives and how everyone needs to change the colour of their t-shirt because one multimillionaire says that it is now 'In' whatever that might mean, I have never really understood fashion or its decrepit counterparts.


	2. Chapter 2

**June 19****th**** 2017**

There hasn't really been much to talk about since my last entry, the house seems lifeless, I heard the sound of an engine earlier, but I doubt they are still in the area or even alive; it is a silly way for us to get around, relying on automobiles before the outbreak made us lazy enough but now, people would kill their own children to get a hold of a car. It is absolute chaos and what makes it worse is that it simply isn't logical; I can't understand why someone would want to compromise their position to the infected like that because what happens when you run out of petrol? Well apart from the obvious, but could you honestly imagine going through a big city such as Nottingham and running out of petrol in the dead center, surrounded by the dead and not to mention the fact you would have probably attracted what can only be described as a shitload more of the walking dead? Which ultimately results in attracting more infected with their groans because of you attracting the original zombie because you felt that your automobile would be your sanctuary?

People; I just don't understand them.

Also as a side note, keep an eye on the wild life, they seem to be feasting on the corpses of the infected, that's the last thing I need; infected animals. Although so far so good, let us hope it stays this way, I am growing quite attached to this little teahouse.

**June 21****st**** 2017**

For the first time since the outbreak, I cried, I honestly cried and couldn't stop crying, I don't understand, I am happy that people are no longer around to hassle me, the drunk teenagers coming out of the pubs, giving me abuse due to my misfortunes, I wanted them dead, but for some reason I think I would welcome a beating from someone, just to put my mind at ease that I am not the only one left on this god forsaken planet which isn't bloody drooling.

On the situation regarding the house, there has been some movement inside, I noticed it late last night, I would wager it was around 3am, it is usually when the birds start singing from their havens in the trees. I didn't get a good look at the being but I certainly saw someone; as long as they don't see me I should be fine, you can't just go running to the first person you see in this world; I have experienced that first hand.

There was a young girl, who I believe lived just near where I was taking refuge before the outbreak, I could recognise that voice anywhere; she had a very foreign accent, maybe not foreign in the sense of country, but certainly county I was very uncertain of where it was from, but it was incredibly distinctive, almost as distinctive to an American hearing some upper class snob talking out of their arse about the lower classes sort of thing.

She always found time to sit and draw, I had been taking refuge near her house for a good 9 years, I had watched her grow up, not in a stereotypical sort of homeless dude out to steal your child to sacrifice it to the great lord trashulu; but just with absolute fascination at such a talented young girl. She would have been a famous artist if not for the infection, her drawings where magnificent, almost lifelike portraits of her family and even people who had simply walked by her in the street on that same day. She could memorise all the features, you could probably take her on a helicopter ride across the whole of London and she'd be able to remember every little detail. It is such a shame, such a waste.

Her father disagreed with her drawing, she wanted to make a career out of it but he believed that artists are just lazy people who never accomplish anything in their lives and believes that she should get, as he describes it a 'Proper job'. Now please if anyone ever reads this, assuming I am still alive, come find me and define a proper job to me, I cannot understand why someone cannot see the potential in such magnificent art and why they would disagree with a career path which their offspring wishes to walk down. Well, obviously unless these people would rather their children be stuck in a job in a 9 to 5 job wiping corporation's arses?

But hey who am I to judge? Am I not, as seen by society the one which is meant to be judged upon? The one that should have no opinion because I do not hold down a respectable job, house or family?

As I have previously stated, I was taking refuge nearby their house I had quite a nice little set up, which I had built up over the years, I had also managed to keep it hidden for many years, it used to be an old garage but it had been covered by it's own rubble and a nice overgrowth of plants hid the entrance nicely. I had a small gap where I used to watch and on occasion feed the Sparrows.

I think she knew I was there, but she was not afraid, she knew I wouldn't hurt her, she had drawn other homeless folks around town, she had great sympathy for us; something her father couldn't grasp, he was a wealthy man, not sure what he did, but he probably worked damn hard to get where he was but that didn't stop him being a complete bastard; he tried to get the council to tear down the garage which I had made my home but luckily for me, the sparrows had nested within my walls, probably due to the fact that I fed them what I could, little buggers really, making home where the food is, I do miss them...One used to come and eat out of my hand, in complete trust of me, I felt that it had some form of sympathy for me but that could just be due to the lack of human contact making me consider the possibility that a bird would feel such a thing for a human being. Unless the bird understood the concept of capitalism and why I was living in an abandoned garage. I really miss that little bird.

I must stop trailing off, please accept my sincere apologies reader. Because of the sparrows the council couldn't do a thing due to a certain law so in some respects I owe them a lot.

He too wasn't afraid I was going to do anything, he just despised me, he never saw me, but he used to go onto his back garden, press himself right up to the fence and told me to "Piss off" and usually said that I was the scum of society, interesting to say he never knew me, so how he came to that conclusion will always baffle me.

I am certain she drew the garage, her window with her drawing desk faced it, but her father burned all of those images, as if it wasn't enough for him to see such common filth at the bottom of his garden every day, to then find his daughter drawing it and trying to explain to him that it is an magnificent structure.

Unfortunately for her that was where her drawing stopped, her father tore up all of her work and threw away her tools and drawing pads. It almost seems a coincidence that the infection blighted this land the very next day, almost to say the girl had cursed her father and the world. Obviously that theory is very far-fetched reader but please, think about it with an open mind.

Her father left the moment he heard about it, they hadn't spoken since he destroyed her only true love. I saw him, he was frantic, my first thoughts where that he had just gotten incredibly angry which the previous nights events, it wasn't the first time he had left in a fit of rage. He desperately tried to get away as fast as he possibly could, whether or not he was going for more help, to check on other family and had consulted his daughter of his intentions in some form of written note or if he had just simply ran away like a bloody coward. We will never know.

After her father left she actually seemed quite calm, especially to say she knew about the situation, maybe she was a wreck inside, who knows?

She kept silent in her house for at least two weeks at which point the infected had taken over. I managed to go out scavenging every now and then but I had enough tinned goods stored up to last me quite some time, so I too sat and waited for it to simply blow over, which now I obviously realise that won't be happening any time soon.

One night she was slightly foolish, which really surprised me, she had never been this foolish before. I was around the side of the house's bushes which links to the garage, as I said it was terribly overgrown, you could hide a gang of people in those bushes.  
She had noticed something, she drew back the curtains and exposed the light from inside the house, and it must have been someone she had known as there had been people previously walk by yet nothing. She always kept her supplies with her just in case she had to abandon her home, I saw the candle light from the window with the drawn back curtains disappear, she had ran down the stairs and straight out the front door, and she screamed

"Father!"

As I watched in absolute disbelief; this smart young girl exposed herself to the death which awaited, she might as well have welcomed it with open arms. As she ran towards the person she had recognised I too recognised the figure, it was her father, he had come back, all beaten up and bruised, cuts all over his body, it looked like he hadn't eaten in weeks, he was carrying what looked like some form of metal pipe. His daughter ran straight into his arms, embracing him, she backed away slightly to look at his face, it was lifeless; he had seen death in its most ferocious form.

She turned around from him and began to walk back into the house, beckoning him to follow her and in two small steps, he raised the pipe to shoulder height and swung it into the side of her head, cracking her skull into pieces, she fell straight to the ground, blood pouring from her lifeless body, flesh dripping from the pipe, he raised his weapon and brought it down upon his daughter's skull again, and again.

Her head completely caved in, unrecognisable. That once lovely bundle of joy, now a splatter on her doorstep. He went through her pockets and bag, took what he could and as if he had completely forgotten who he was and that fact that he was at his own home he then left, he walked off into the night with his own daughter's brains and skull fragments dangling from the pipe he was carrying.

Her corpse attracted the infected like flies to a piece of shit on a hot summer day, her corpse, ravaged by the infected, not one part of her was untouched, by the time they where finished she had no flesh, organs or structure in general, it was like watching a pack of lions feast upon a gazelle and licking up all the tasty flesh on the bones.

A week later after they had subsided a wee bit, I decided to investigate the home just to see what I could discover, maybe some posh tinned food?

As I stepped over her bones I felt the same sympathy she did for me, I entered her home, it felt so strange entering a home which I had for so long been a simple observer of; I entered it in high spirits of finding something tasty within the cupboards, maybe some tinned spaghetti, I only found a tin of beans and corned beef, but that got me through. Her house was exquisite; nice décor to say the least, which is kind of ironic to say that her father hated all art forms yet this place was just a huge canvas, even if it had been ravaged by stumbling flesh sacks. I made my way up the stairs, to the room which for so long the tables where the other way, although it is now only me, looking out to the garage, with no one looking back. Hopefully.

I noticed she had somehow managed to keep some of her drawings, knowing her she would have had a special hiding spot for these kinds of things, knowing her father just as well as she did, I probably would have had to make some form of hiding spot for my precious items. As I looked through the drawings she had manage to save from her father's rage, I noticed she had saved her drawings of the homeless and a couple of buildings around the town, including one of an elderly lady wearing a Victorian era dress and smoking a cigarette in a café with people around her looking rather disgusted at the cigarette.

As I continued to explore her room I noticed one more picture, it was of outside of her window, she had drawn me, in my garage, feeding the sparrows and on the back it said.

"Father hates you for the social stereotype, believes you are the bane of this nation, but I see you for your true self, I have always seen you, I have always watched you, I don't believe you have ever noticed me, but I notice you, every day and if you ever read this, I love you and I for some reason wish you love me, I cannot describe why I love you, but I do, and you will probably never find out as I will never find out why I do feel such a thing as love."

I broke down a hysterical fit of what can only really be described as wheezing, it wasn't crying, it wasn't screaming, I wanted to do them both, I didn't want to ever stop and I certainly never thought I would be able to stop in this lifetime. As someone which was exiled from all forms of society, with no one and to hear that someone can actually love you when countless dozens have thrown you to the gutter before, it really hits you.

It makes me think what exactly is the point of trying to survive and why do I wish to survive in this world and to fight for what? For a society to rebuild itself once this issue has been dealt with and then we all go back to the old ways, the rich will get richer and the poor, well in a society of rich folks who gives a fuck about the poor?


End file.
